


good grief

by Quyinn



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy's Camaro, Drabbles, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Maxine "Max" Mayfield Needs a Hug, Past Character Death, Recreational Drug Use, Steve Harrington & Maxine "Max" Mayfield Have a Sibling Relationship, Steve Harrington Has a Crush on Billy Hargrove, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26240356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quyinn/pseuds/Quyinn
Summary: Her fingers are too small, her knuckles too clean, nails too bitten to rub over the leather. She's too small to bring comfort to this car.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington & Maxine "Max" Mayfield
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	good grief

Max sits in the driver's seat of the Camaro, hands cradling the wheel. Her fingers are too small, her knuckles too clean, nails too bitten to rub over the leather. She's too small to bring comfort to this car.

It's chilly outside, a biting breeze. The dented metal of the Camaro's body doesn't do a lot to keep out the crisp air. Sometimes the radio works. Max can jimmy the key into the scratched lock and the Camaro will purr for her. Low and half heartedly. 

Her head hurts a little, tension and exhaustion kicking at her temples. Her eyes are rimmed red but as she exhales a thick cloud of smoke, she's not sure if it's from crying or not.

Max pulls the jean jacket tighter around herself, the blue shoulders hanging off her own limply. It smells like cigarettes and woody aftershave and grief. Her hair is greasy, pulled back in a band to keep it off her damp face. Her stomach hurts but she thinks she might throw up if she eats any of the snacks Steve brought.

Max leans back against the worn seat, taking the half smoked joint from her lips. She taps her feet against the pedals. They creak under her trainers and squeak a little as she rocks her heel against the brake pad. It almost sounds like a grunt of annoyance and she grins, lip wobbling and snot dripping over her teeth.

She feels disgusting, sick, tired. The cracked moonlight illuminates the dashboard, dried blood in the windscreen reminding her of the wide stained glass windows in church. The ruby red of Saint Jude's robes.

Steve's cross faded in the backseat. He's splayed over the length of it, his arms raised as if he's reliving a memory. The sleeves of the too big leather jacket slips to his elbows as his palms slide down the back of a phantom shape on his lap.

She thinks his cheeks are wet but she can't really tell.

It didn't take nearly as much convincing as she had thought. It's not even like Steve needed to roll the joints for her, she's been helping roll smokes since California.

It feels like a life time ago. The baking sun, the slaps on her shoulders and face from rough, calloused, sunscreen coated hands. The skinned knees from boarding and the bloodshot eyes only saltwater can give.

Maybe Steve didn't need much convincing because his brown eyes are ringed with crimson like her own. Their noses are matching, red and peeling from harsh tissues. Both their hands shook when Steve passed her the joint and threw himself into the back of the Camaro.

Steve doesn't cry quietly. He hasn't had to learn how to muffle his tears and keep his breathing so shallow it feels like suffocating. He cries like he wants his sobs to echo, the way he chokes on them, gasping wet and smokey as his fingers clench on air and his knuckles dig into his eyes.

She startles when the snick of the silver zippo lighter cuts through the laboured breaths. Max bought that lighter maybe a month before the move. Maybe a month before she ruined everything.

Steve might have asked her a question. She can't really remember how to move her tongue, but glances over to him, where he's holding the flame out. Max relights her joint. Steve takes a deep drag of his own, his whole face red, hair slicked back with sweat.

He collapses back down, taking a pull from the whiskey bottle behind the driver's seat. That, he did refuse to share with Max.

She doesn't think it was Steve's anyway. Max is pretty sure Steve's thinking about somebody else's lips around the opening of the bottle and, honestly, she can't find the energy to be grossed out.

She taps her fingers against the wheel, leather warmed beneath her palms. It's a little difficult to resist the urge to lean forward and press her own skull against the crack in the windshield. A little difficult to not imagine the amount of blood that must have mixed with sun bleached curls.

They'll pass out eventually, when the sun crests over the dusty hills. When they can see their breath in front of their faces and their legs fall asleep from where they're folded in the seats of the Camaro. 

Steve makes a garbled sound behind her, a hiccup and a ragged exhale.

Max blinks slowly, smoke curling from her lips and tears spilling over her cheeks.

The Camaro is so cold.

\-----------------------

_ Caught off guard by your favourite song _

_ I'll be dancing at your funeral _

_ Sleeping in the clothes you love _

_ It's such a shame we had to see them burn _

_ Good Grief- Bastille _

**Author's Note:**

> a lil sad drabble that i wrote impulsively (read: sobbing) n thought id share with y'all  
> ive never posted anything this short before n im not sure if im keen but enjoy  
> can find me @bloodyjacksparrow on tumblr if u fancy a chat or have any good memes :))  
> thank you for reading, lemme know what you think?


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